


The Price of Running

by PreseaMoon



Category: Durarara!!, 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreseaMoon/pseuds/PreseaMoon
Summary: Masaomi goes to Yokohama on Izaya's behalf for an exchange of information.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	The Price of Running

Izaya had said, “It’s not a big deal, Masaomi-kun. They’re called the Port Mafia but they’re hardly yakuza at all. Nothing to be worried about.”

This has proven to be a bald faced _lie_. The Port Mafia aren’t yakuza his ass. They absolutely are, and if they aren’t they’re something worse. That Izaya has misled him shouldn’t be shocking, and it isn’t, not really. But he was kind of thinking, hoping, that maybe Izaya would be less of an asshole with Masaomi as his employee. Not out of any decency or respect, of course, but because doing so would be practical. Masaomi giving him wrong information out of spite or fucking up his relationships with criminal organizations isn’t just possible, it’s probable.

Izaya trusts him to get whatever job he gives done, and isn’t that as insulting as it is disturbing.

He’d almost be tempted to fuck it up if he didn’t think these people would kill him and sink his body to the bottom of Tokyo Bay. They are totally looking at him like that’s on their mind, like they don’t fully buy that Orihara Izaya from Shinjuku sent him. Which is… Who in their right mind would claim that if it wasn’t true?

On the other hand, maybe this is hostility towards anything potentially associated with Izaya in general. It’s not like he has a glowing reputation among those who regularly enlist his services. Maybe these people are actually thinking something like, hey, why not kill this kid and inconvenience Izaya, wouldn’t that be funny?

And it kind of would be, considering Masaomi is supposed to be delivering something and retrieving something else.

They’ve brought him to some kind of conference room for this exchange of information. The floor is grey, the walls are grey, and there are six chairs situated around a too large table. There aren’t any windows. It looks more like an interrogation room.

Are they going to interrogate him? Izaya definitely did not prep him for that. Or anything else for that matter.

The two grunts who escorted him through the building have left without a word, and he guesses the assumed command is “wait.”

So that’s what Masaomi does. He takes the biggest, most comfortable chair and waits. He tests how far he can lean back, nearly toppling over three separate times. The chair spins but refuses to gain speed, making it a near useless endeavor. He finds the optimal traction to slide almost a meter without his feet touching the floor.

If there’s a hidden camera in here, which there probably is, all it’s going to see is the moron kid Izaya has used to do his bidding. That’s probably a good thing, he thinks. For him, that is. With any luck it’ll make Izaya look foolish.

After ten minutes or maybe a half hour—an amount of time that feels like less than an hour at any rate, someone finally opens the door. Nearly slams the door open, really. The knob makes a bang against the wall that echoes against the walls and should probably make Masaomi flinch but doesn’t.

In walks a guy, and the first thing Masaomi notices about him is that he’s wearing black, leather gloves.

The second thing he notices is the scowl that’s so deep it looks carved into his face. If that expression isn’t one of total antipathy then Masaomi doesn’t know what is.

One of the worst things about being Izaya’s lackey is that all the abhorrence he garners gets to be applied to you as well. As if Masaomi doesn’t _know_. As if he doesn’t feel that himself and in much greater intensity.

In these moments he might as well be Izaya, and honestly he gets it.

He would rather have this than pity anyway.

The guy slams the door behind him and crosses his arms. One of the motions, he’s not sure which, somehow gives the trench coat draped across his shoulders a little flutter at the edges. Why does everyone in this building look and act like they’ve been plucked straight out of a gangster film. It’s more bewildering than intimidating.

The guy waits.

Masaomi waits. He’s not sure which of them is supposed to talk first. Also, is he supposed to introduce himself? Nerves crawl under his skin so far down they’re lodged in his bones. He can barely feel them but they make every breath ache.

He should speak, but it’s too late now. He can’t.

Why’s he such a dumbass that he can’t learn lessons prior to making mistakes.

The guy’s eyebrow twitches. The limit of his limited patience reached. His forearm swings out with enough force it’s like a strike meant for Masaomi’s gut. The fingers unfurl, and now they expect something.

“Well?” he says, testy, daring Masaomi to make the baiting, passive-aggressive comments Izaya might make in this situation.

Instead, Masaomi pulls out the envelope and tosses it across the table. The weight of the various memory cards within give it some momentum, but not enough to take it across the table’s entire length.

There’s another small twitch in the guy’s eyebrow and he’s giving Masaomi a look like he did that on purpose. Which he didn’t. He just… wanted to keep a respectful distance. That seems like a thing to do with yakuza.

Rather than lean over the table the guy walks to the side where he just has to reach using all of his arm. As he takes the envelope between his fingers he sends Masaomi a withering glare.

Something tells Masaomi that apologizing will make things worse. So he keeps his lips sealed and his hands where they can be seen. 

The guy rips open the top and pours the cards out into his hand. He barely looks at them before dropping them in a pocket. Then, he slides out a sheet of paper and, after a glance at Masaomi, proceeds to read it. Line by line his expression darkens, free hand curling back into a fist so tight Masaomi can hear the leather creak from where he stands.

It’s funny how you can sense when anger is directed at Izaya specifically.

Considering he antagonizes Heiwajima Shizuo for fun, it shouldn’t be surprising that Izaya’s sense of self-preservation is deficient in other areas as well.

The guy gives the paper an impressively clean tear through the middle, and then gives the halves another tear. He crumples them in his hands and stuffs the remains in another pocket. His eyes snap to Masaomi, and there’s flatness there now, instead of the glare. “Tell Orihara he can fuck himself,” he says.

“Will do.”

The guy narrows his eyes at him, suspecting mockery. Then, after Masaomi says nothing, he sighs and pulls his own envelope out from his coat’s inner pocket. This one is black, thick with money and information. He tosses it, and it lands with a fat thump right in front of Masaomi, who blinks at it, impressed.

Masaomi takes the envelope and puts it in his bag without bothering to check the contents first.

“You can get out, now,” he’s told when he doesn’t make any moves.

“Do I just… leave? Or…?”

He doesn’t actually know how to get out of here. He wasn’t paying that much attention as he was zig-zagged through halls. Even if he had, he wouldn’t trust himself to make it out of here without drawing some kind of negative attention he’d fail to talk his way out of.

The guy frowns at him, and then makes an aborted eye roll. Turning around, he gestures for Masaomi to follow. “Come on, then.”


End file.
